


It Amazes You...

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures, The Midnight Crew - Fandom
Genre: Kidnapping, M/M, Murder, Not Humanstuck, POV Second Person, Potentially More Warnings To Be Added, Sadism, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-23 07:08:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6108928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The man that Jack Noir tells you to capture is only the first of many.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Amazes You...

This is the one, Jack Noir says to you.

You know that this is the one. You just told Jack that this is the one, prior to the slit-eyed, nearly predatory inspection he just performed. Yet, Jack’s telling you that this is the one, as if he’s been in charge of coordinating the meticulously planned searches with Topographers and Operatives, as if he’s been losing sleep and staying up late trying to figure out how he can cut the battlefield losses on the routes he’s created, as if he’s been organizing how the hell the Operatives are to tiptoe around not only fatal injury, but also loyalty and brotherhood to get the information required. As if he’s not the one who dumped the goddamn job onto your lap.

This is the one, Jack Noir says to you. He also says you coulda been a bit quicker finding him.

You say nothing. There’s nothing that could possibly come out of your mouth that wouldn’t get you in shit. Your fingers tap out a rhythm of subtly implied annoyance upon the table, and that’s as close as you’ll allow yourself to words. Yes, you took a little while. Business needs to have care put into the way it's conducted and you especially didn't want to fuck this one up. The fastidious nature hardwired into your brain wouldn’t allow for your first mission of this type to go badly. One has to set a good precedent--but Jack has never been one to set a good precedent, and couldn’t possibly understand.

He continues by saying that this son of a bitch has caused a lot of trouble. He needs you to get the captive to tell you whatever he told them, and he needs you to do it quickly. Her Royal fucking Majesty is expecting results, of course, he adds with enmity. You say that you’ve got it covered. He says he’s sure you do, and reminds you that if you gotta rough the bastard up, then go right on ahead. You say, again, that you got it covered. You really just want him to get out of here--something that you don’t say, but he senses, which he indicates by telling you to watch your attitude. You don’t reply. There’s a pause before he orders you to get to work, and to call in the Brute afterwards before checking in. You nod curtly. He meets your eyes with a hard stare, then leaves, closing the door hard behind him.

Just once, very quietly, you sigh, and you turn to look at the man sitting in the chair at the table. If you were someone funnier, you’d make a comment--bosses, am I right? But the fact remains that your sense of humor isn’t exactly your defining trait, and you want to get this done as swiftly as possible, further crippling your capability to makes jokes of any kind.

So, you say, taking out your deck of cards. You hear that he’s been working with the Prospitians.

The man, of course, adamantly denies it.

You think that this will be a long night.

 

♠♡♢♣

 

You call in the Brute.

When he arrives, you’re in the room next to the holding cell, leaning against the wall. You take a drag off of the cigarette that hangs from your mouth, arms crossed over your crimson-spattered chest. The Brute asks if you got what Jack needed. You say of course you did, you wouldn’t have called if that wasn't the case. He proceeds to ask if you roughed him up. Only a little, you say, amusement now grimly working its way up from your interior. Maybe you are a funny guy after all, cause HB laughs. He pats you companionably on the shoulder before entering the room you’ve just left. Despite being out of your tank for hardly over a fortnight, you feel a connection to him and the other agents. Maybe it's just coding, but his gesture makes you feel something akin to fellowship.

After a moment, he comes back out, the suspect’s broken and bleeding form draped over his shoulder. He heads off, presumably to put the bastard in a cell until the queen is ready to figure out what to do with him. You turn away from him, putting out the stub of your cigarette on the carapace of your arm, on a spot already growing numb from being used for that purpose.

And, as your face is hidden by the angle, you quietly, privately, let your expression twist into a grin.


End file.
